


A Gift Given is Joy Doubled

by Ralkana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Clint/Coulson Holiday Exchange, Fanboy Phil Coulson, Getting Together, Gift Giving, M/M, Pining, Sort Of, but not really college based, college aged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 10:23:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13211769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: Clint's best friend Phil has admired artist Steve Rogers for what seems like forever. Clint tries not to let it get to him.He's never thought that Steve Rogers might just provide the push to bring him and Phil closer together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tisfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/gifts).



> For Tisfan. I took one of your art prompts, turned it into a fic prompt, and tweaked it a bit. Hope you enjoy it! Happy holidays!
> 
> The rating is for a bit of swearing.
> 
> Thanks to L for the beta!
> 
> Thank you so much to the mods for your patience during what turned out to be a truly ridiculous couple of months in my life. I really, really appreciate you letting me continue to participate when all the wheels fell off every wagon I own!

 

Clint fidgeted, fingers playing along the limb of his bow. His unstrung bow, because that was the con's policy. Not that it mattered, since his arrows were just fletched but untipped dowels ziptied into his quiver. Also policy.

Kind of ruined the look, but he couldn't be Robin Hood without a bow. Robin Hood without a bow just looked like Peter Pan, especially since his costume was a basic green tunic and tights, but hey, he was a poor college student on an archery scholarship. Cosplay was expensive!

He sighed. The line wasn't moving yet. He glanced at Phil, who was staring at the front of the line with the same unrelenting focus that had netted him Dean's List honors and a black belt in jiu jitsu.

Clint took the opportunity to look Phil over out of the corner of his eye. His peripheral vision was _very_ good, which was great, because it made looking at Phil easy.

Not that Clint stared at Phil a lot. At least, he tried not to. Because that would be creepy. But Phil was... Phil.

Clint had never considered himself to have a thing for a man in uniform. But _Phil_ in uniform was...

Wow.

If Bucky Barnes had looked as good as Phil looked _as_ Bucky Barnes, well, he must have been a very popular guy.

From the knife sharp creases in his uniform trousers to the gleam of each shiny button, the perfect side part in his light brown hair to the precise knot in his olive tie, Phil looked like he'd stepped directly out of the newsreels he loved to watch. He stood ramrod straight, service cap tucked carefully under one arm.

A lot of cosplayers would be wearing it, Clint knew. And Phil had intended to, but when the updated weapons policy had relieved him of the prop gun he'd painstakingly made, Phil had decided after a lot of self-debate that he couldn't in good conscience wear the service cap.

No good soldier would wear his cover indoors, after all, unless he was under arms.

Clint ducked his head, hiding a smile at the memory of the earnest way Phil had explained his decision not to wear the cap to the con, but to carry it instead. In the proper manner.

Phil shifted minutely, the only sign that he was feeling just as bored and impatient as Clint. Clint caught his eye and felt his cheeks warm. Something about the uniform made Phil's big blue eyes even bluer, he'd swear to it.

"Should be soon," Phil murmured, taking a deep breath.

Clint nodded. This line, he knew, was Phil's main purpose in attending this particular con: the chance, however small, to meet Steve Rogers, the comic book artist Phil had looked up to since he'd started reading comics almost a decade earlier, in middle school.

Phil and Clint and every single person at the con, it seemed. Rogers' appearances were few and far between, rare enough that the chance for an autograph had been arranged as a lottery.

Clint tugged a bottle of water out of his bag, offering it to Phil first, who shook his head. Clint shrugged and took a swing before tossing it back and pulling out the con program. It was already dog-eared and slightly thrashed, because that was what generally happened to things in Clint's orbit.

He used Phil's shoulder to smooth out the program, gamely doing his best to ignore thoughts of the lean muscle hidden underneath Phil's uniform shirt and jacket. Phil glanced at him in mock-exasperation, and Clint grinned cheerily.

"How are you wearing a wool uniform in a packed convention hall in the middle of May and you're not a sweaty mess?" Clint asked, paging through the program. Even his light costume was starting to stick to him.

"Discipline," Phil said mildly, and Clint laughed.

"We're moving," Phil said before Clint could reply, all of his nervousness and anxiety escaping him in those simple words. His eyes were wide, and Clint watched his adam's apple bob as he swallowed apprehensively.

The line moved quickly then, the ever-present murmur of the crowd punctuated by the occasional whoop of joy or groan of despair.

The system was simple: stick a hand in a bag held by a convention volunteer, pull out a ticket, and hope the ticket had a stamp on it. A stamp meant a wristband and a whole new line, one with Steve Rogers at the end of it.

Clint and Phil reached the front of the line, Clint taking a half-step back so that Phil could go first. He watched as Phil took a deep breath and stuck his hand in the bag.

The minute slump of Phil's shoulders as he glanced at his ticket told the whole story. Clint shoved his hand in the bag, willing it to grab a ticket with a stamp, for Phil's sake.

His was blank, too.

Phil was watching him, eyes hopeful. Clint stepped forward to let someone else try, shaking his head at Phil, his heart aching as the corners of Phil's mouth turned down.

"Sorry, man," he said, and Phil shook his head.

"Nah. It's cool. What's next? Find anything interesting on the schedule?"

The brightness in his voice was brittle, so Clint glanced back at the ragged program, just as determined to move past their bad luck as Phil was. "Um... there's a sci-fi writing workshop, something on Pokemon, pop culture and politics -- ew -- a cosplay photography thing, and... the Psychology of Star Wars."

Phil's eyes lit up, and Clint laughed. "You are such a nerd, Coulson."

Phil's cheeks went pink. "You don't have -- "

"Of course I'm going. Watching you nerd out is the whole reason I'm here. Room 401A, lead the way, Sergeant!"

Phil rolled his eyes and shoved past him, cheeks still pink. Clint resolutely stared at the back of his head, ignoring through long practice the way Phil's perfectly tailored uniform highlighted his assets.

 

**~ ~ ~ ~ ~**

 

After The Psychology of Star Wars and Queer Culture in Independent Comics, they decided to hit the exhibit hall.

They had to skirt the giant crowd massed in front of the signing stage in order to get to the hall. Those lucky enough to get a wristband were crammed into the line snaking slowly past the signing table. Those without wristbands hovered around the edges of the crowd, trying to get a glimpse or take a picture of the special guest.

Phil slowed to a stop, craning his neck for a look, and Clint slid haphazardly to a halt beside him, mouthing an apology at the Deadpool cosplayer he'd bumped. The crowd moved just enough to give them a glimpse of Rogers, smiling brightly as he chatted and signed for those in the seemingly never-ending line.

There was such a look of longing on Phil's face that Clint barely bit back a sigh. Steve Rogers looked like the superheroes he was famous for drawing, tall, broad, and blond with a squarely heroic jawline, a smile meant for photo ops, and bright blue eyes that sparkled with humor. Looking at him, Clint couldn't help but wish he were a few inches taller, a few inches broader in the shoulders, a little less rugged, and a little more, well, pretty. He'd been called _interesting_ , like that was supposed to be a compliment, but interesting was never going to make Phil look at him like he was looking at Steve Rogers.

And for all that, he knew it wasn't just Rogers' looks that had Phil sighing wistfully.

There was a reason Clint had done his level best to become some kind of artist -- _any_ kind of artist -- in his high school years. He'd eventually given it up, much to all his friends' relief -- his artistry showed itself on the range, and he'd come to terms with that, finally.

But still, one of his favorite things to do was to ask Phil what he thought of Rogers' newest issues, no matter the book, whenever they came out. The way Phil's eyes lit up, the way he framed panels in the air with his hands, the excitement in his voice as he analyzed line and shadow -- Clint could watch him for hours. Had.

He had eagerly shared with Phil the information Rogers had posted on his social media about his commission rates and availability, but it was basically a pipe dream. They were both students on scholarships working full time, and the cost of a Steve Rogers commission would easily cover new gear or a required textbook.

Clint sometimes entertained fantasies of scraping together the money to surprise Phil with a piece of Rogers' art -- maybe then Phil might look at him with a fraction of the admiration he held for Rogers -- but even if he'd managed to do so, Rogers' commission slots disappeared in seconds.

So here they were, left on the sidelines, looking and hoping in vain.

After a minute, Phil sighed. "Okay, come on. Done being sad about it. Let's go look at art and toys we can't afford instead."

Clint laughed. "Sounds like a plan."

"Then pizza? It's our last chance before I go home."

"Even better," Clint said, ignoring the pang at the thought of being alone in town all summer while Phil and their other friends went home. At least Nat would probably be around for some of the time. "Oh, hey, there's one of those photo op backgrounds, let's get a selfie first, before I end up smearing pizza sauce all over myself."

Phil smirked, but didn't argue. In their years of friendship, Clint was pretty sure Phil had seen him at least once with pizza sauce in his ear.

They melted back into the crowd, discussing panels and pizza toppings.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Clint jogged to a stop, wiping his eyes with his shirtsleeve, laughing as Lucky jerked to a stop at the end of his leash and then looked back at Clint, confusion clear on his furry face.

"Gotta wait for the light, Luck," he said, reaching down to ruffle the dog's ears.

Lucky barked and sat, tongue lolling out as he shivered with joy at Clint's touch.

Clint grinned, thankful once again that he was rooming this year with Sam and Scott and Jimmy Woo. It was the only reason he'd been able to take Lucky in after rescuing him earlier in the school year. It wouldn't have worked at all if he'd still been in the dorms.

"Ready, pup? Let's go," he said as the light turned green, laughing as Lucky scrambled back to his feet and they took off again.

Long runs with the dog and hours at the range killed the empty hours in his days and kept him from endlessly texting Phil. It had been three weeks since finals ended and Phil went back to Wisconsin to spend the summer with his family. Three looooong weeks.

It wasn't that he thought of Phil every minute of every day, Clint reasoned as he and Lucky jogged another block. 

_Okay, only every other minute_ , the snide voice in his head said.

"That's not true, is it, Lucky?" he said breathlessly. 

He had his work at the animal shelter, and his volunteering at the community center, and his workouts and archery training. His days were busy.

But he missed Phil.

Life was easy with Phil around. Life was _good_ with Phil around. Phil knew what comics Clint liked and what pizza toppings he hated. He knew about the bad times in Clint's past, about the nightmares that woke Clint up sweating and shaking, when he'd spend the rest of the night huddled in the corner of his bedroom with Lucky curled against him.

When Phil was around, Clint didn't have to think so carefully about what he shared, didn't have to edit the stories he told about his past. Phil understood, he always looked at Clint with care and concern, but never with pity or shock.

Clint sighed, and picked up the pace. A good workout would keep him from wallowing.

There was no reason to wallow, he realized with a grin. He'd see Phil in just a couple of weeks, when he headed to Wisconsin to spend Phil's birthday and the Fourth of July with Phil and his family. Scott and Nat had agreed to look after Lucky for the week. Clint couldn't wait.

He glanced at Lucky as they ran, pleased to see that the dog's gait was smooth, no sign of a hitch or a limp, no reminders of the broken leg he'd had when Clint had first found him.

Lucky might be missing an eye, but he was happy, and healthy, and Clint was so grateful for that.

"Stop! Hey!"

Clint was jarred out of his thoughts as someone shoved him from behind. He lost his footing and fell, hands and knees skidding painfully along the concrete, and he barely caught himself before his chin bounced off the ground. The person who'd knocked him over flew past, and Lucky took off, barking madly as he yanked the leash out of Clint's hand.

"Luck, no!" Clint scrambled up into a limping run, darting after his dog. Visions of Lucky running into traffic again ran through his mind and he panicked, pushing himself harder, ignoring the way his hands and knees throbbed. "Lucky, get back here!"

"Hey! Stop!" someone yelled again. "Stop! Dammit, he's got my bag!" 

Clint kept running, breathing hard now, focused on Lucky and barely sparing a thought for whoever was behind him. Whoever it was apparently couldn't manage to keep their stuff secure on a busy New York street, and now Clint's dog was going to end up as roadkill.

Ahead, the man Lucky was chasing darted around a corner into an alley, Lucky directly on his heels, and there was a yelp -- a human yelp.

Clint rounded a corner and found Lucky growling and yanking at the pant leg of a man -- a kid really, probably no older than Clint. The kid had a leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder and was trying to climb over the boxes and crates blocking a good portion of the alley. He yelled again as Lucky snapped and managed to grab hold of something more than fabric.

"Hey!" Clint yelled as the kid twisted and kicked at Lucky, who whimpered at the kick but didn't let go. Clint grabbed for him and managed to grab the bag, swearing as the kid's flailing fist caught him on the cheek.

"Fuck! Let go!" the thief snarled, writhing furiously and managing to wriggle out from under the strap of the bag. It caught on his hoodie and tore it, and he swore again, kicking at Lucky until the dog yelped and released him. Dropping the bag the thief had stolen, Clint leapt forward again and grabbed him, managing to grab his wildly kicking leg.

"Just stop!" Clint yelled, but the thief heaved him off and pulled a knife out of his pocket. Clint froze at the _snick_ of the blade popping out, backing off with his hands up. He grabbed Lucky by the collar, swearing as it pulled at the torn skin of his palms.

The kid jumped to his feet and backed away, glaring at Clint and Lucky before he scrambled off over the crates and boxes and disappeared around the corner at the other end of the alley.

Clint dropped the bag and fell to his knees, ignoring the pain as he ran his hands over Lucky.

"You hurt? You okay, boy? You're okay, Lucky, aren't you? What were you thinking?"

"Are you okay?" another voice asked, and Clint and Lucky both flinched as someone dropped to a knee beside them. "Oh my god, is that my bag? You got it back!"

"Yeah, well," Clint started hotly, anger and adrenaline making him shake as he turned on the guy, only to gasp and fall back on his ass. "Holy shit!"

Steve Rogers froze in the act of reaching for his bag. "What? Are you hurt? Is your dog okay?"

"I -- you!"

Rogers sighed, relief rather than exasperation. "Jeez, kid. I thought you were dying. You _are_ okay?"

"I... yeah. I mean. I think." He glanced over to where Lucky was enthusiastically exploring the alley, leash dragging behind him, peeing on everything he could. "He's fine, I guess."

"Good, that's good. Really good. Man, I can't believe you managed to get my bag back!"

_You should keep a better eye on it,_ Clint thought shakily, but he couldn't manage to say it to _Steve Rogers_.

"I know, I know," Rogers said with a wry smile. "I was helping my neighbor bring his bags in, and that jerk grabbed it right off my arm."

He opened the bag and pulled out a tablet, breathing a sigh of relief as it started up, apparently undamaged.

"Jeez, kid. You saved my life. Everything's in this bag. My tablet, proofs, scripts, outlines... thank you. And your dog. What's his name?"

"Lucky," Clint said, still riding a wave of adrenaline and surprise. The dog, hearing his name, woofed and trotted back over.

Rogers laughed. "Well, he's certainly lucky for me. Aren't you, boy? Yes, you are!"

Clint stared as Steve Rogers scratched Lucky behind the ears and laughed when the dog swiped a sloppy kiss up his cheek, shoving closer for more petting. He wondered if Rogers would get pissed if he pulled out his phone and took a picture.

Phil was never going to believe this.

"Lucky, no," he said, a little late, reaching to grab Lucky by the leash to pull him off Rogers.

"Oh, hey, that looks kinda bad," Rogers said with a wince, grabbing Clint's hand to look at his scraped and bleeding palm. "I'm sorry you got hurt, come on, my place isn't far, we'll get you patched up."

Clint stared at him, mouth opening and closing a couple of times. "What?"

"Come on, you and Lucky can come get cleaned up, and we can discuss your reward."

"What?" Clint said again. He realized he probably wasn't making a very good impression, but _what?_

He stood, biting his lip to stifle a wince as his knees throbbed at the move. "I don't need a reward, I didn't -- if anything, Lucky -- "

"Listen, I'm sorry, what's your name?"

"Clint. Um. Clint Barton."

"Nice to meet you, Clint, although maybe not under these circumstances. I'm Steve Rogers -- "

"I know who you are!" Clint blurted, and then bit his lip to shut himself up.

Rogers smiled. "I thought you might. Listen, since you know who I am, and I told you what's in this bag, you know I'm not exaggerating when I say that you and your dog prevented a personal catastrophe by getting it back for me. That deserves a reward. Come on."

Rogers slipped the strap of the bag across his body, and gestured with a nod toward the mouth of the alley.

"I'll take Lucky's leash, if that's okay. Your hands are a little bloody."

Clint nodded as he limped out of the alley. Lucky whined and nosed at his hip.

"I'm okay, boy. We're okay." He used his knuckles to stroke Lucky's head, trying not to get blood in his fur.

Rogers grinned at them, bright blue eyes sparkling, and Clint took a deep breath. 

"Actually, there is a little favor I'd like to ask?" he said quickly, before he lost his nerve. "If you're, um, serious about a reward?"

Rogers considered him, eyebrow lifting in curiosity. "Okay, Let's hear it."

"So, um, I have this friend..."


	3. Chapter 3

Clint did his best not to bounce in his seat as the bus pulled into the tiny parking lot of the diner. Manitowoc was too small for a whole bus station.

He hugged his precious package to his chest as he made his way to the front of the bus, the only exiting passenger at this stop. Flipping his sunglasses down over his eyes, he jogged down the steps and glanced around as the driver pulled his duffel bag from the luggage compartment.

"Thanks, man," he said with a smile as the driver nodded to him and climbed back aboard.

Clint swung his duffel bag onto his shoulder, careful of the flat package he still held, glancing around to see where Phil was. He turned and swallowed a gasp.

Phil was there, leaning on his father's cherry red classic Corvette, in jeans and a faded Captain America T-shirt, aviators down and a giant grin on his face.

He was beautiful.

Clint swallowed down the longing he felt and grinned back as he walked closer. "Brought Lola to meet me?"

"Nothing but the best for my favorite person," Phil said, laughing as he grabbed Clint's duffel off his shoulder. He glanced curiously at the flat package wrapped in brown paper that Clint was carrying, but he was far too polite to ask.

Clint held it close as he got into the passenger side, his secret bubbling up, almost too much to hold inside. He bit his lip to hold his tongue. Phil, having stowed Clint's bag, slid behind the wheel, sighing in contentment as he turned the key and ran his hands over the wheel. Lola purred into life.

"It's good to see you, Barton," Phil said, lips curving into a fond smile.

"You too," Clint told him with an answering grin.

Phil pulled out of the lot onto the street at a respectful speed, taking turns Clint knew he'd taken his whole life. "How's Lucky?"

_Basking in his hero status,_ Clint thought but didn't say. "He's good. Scott and Nat are watching him. Heard from Nick yet?"

They caught each other up a little as Phil drove through town, though it wasn't like they hadn't texted each other constantly while Phil had been gone. Clint couldn't count the number of times he'd almost blurted out the tale of his and Lucky's adventure, over text and the few times he and Phil had actually talked.

They hit the open road that led to Phil's family home, and with a devilish grin, Phil let Lola go. She jumped forward with a growl, and Clint whooped, hand shooting up to grab his sunglasses, other hand curling tighter around the package he held. The brown paper rattled in the wind.

The ride was short but exhilarating. They turned onto Phil's tidy little street, and he pulled into the driveway and then into the garage of a neat little house. The fence wasn't picket, but it was white, and the lawn was mowed, the small garden colorful and cheery. Clint could hear the droning of bees as he helped Phil pull out his bag and then cover Lola, and he smiled. It was calm and perfect and though he knew Phil's teenage years had included a number of dark and difficult times, he couldn't imagine Phil having come from any other place.

Phil let them into the immaculate kitchen.  
"Mom'll be home from work soon, and I should start dinner. Let me show you to your room, you can nap if you want -- or, do you want a drink first? A snack?"

Clint laughed, slinging his bag to the kitchen floor. "Relax, Coulson. I don't need a drink, or a nap. But, here -- "

He shoved the package toward Phil, who blinked in surprise.

"Happy birthday! Open it!"

Phil shook his head, biting his lip in a way that made Clint want to kiss it.

"I can't, my birthday's not for five days -- "

"Seriously, man, I've been keeping this a secret for weeks, I don't think I can do it in the same house with you for five freaking days, I'll explode. Just open the damn thing! Please."

Pushing the package into Phil's hands, Clint yanked a chair out from under the kitchen table, gesturing toward it with a flourish. "Sit. And open it."

Phil gave him an excited grin, and sat, running his fingers over the paper.

"Will you just open it?" Clint pulled out another chair and sat, folding his hands together to keep from grabbing the gift from Phil to open it himself.

Phil shot him a look. "I am. Give me a minute, or I'll put it away until the 8th."

"You wouldn't!" Mock-wounded, Clint gaped at him, and Phil laughed.

"Nah. You're acting so weird, I need to know what's in here now."

Phil tore the brown paper off, quickly and messily, laying it on the table. There was another layer of wrapping underneath, comics pages taped together, and Phil looked up at Clint.

"All of them are from the 25 cent boxes at Comics Quest, nothing rare or vintage, relax," Clint said, and Phil smiled.

He ran his fingertips over the familiar red, white, and blue clad figure on the pages. "You didn't have to get me anything, Clint. I considered you coming here a great gift."

Clint felt himself flush, pleased. "Yeah, believe me, this is way better than my busted up face."

"I don't think so," Phil said fondly, and Clint felt his cheeks go even warmer.

Phil was much more careful peeling off the comics pages than he'd been about the brown paper.

"Oh my god." Phil's gasp of delight sent a thrill through Clint. "Clint, how -- "

It was a pen and ink drawing, in Steve Rogers' distinctive style, a recreation of the selfie Phil & Clint had taken at the con, both of them grinning, Phil as Sergeant Barnes and Clint as Robin Hood, Clint's arm around Phil's shoulder. It was maybe Clint's favorite piece of art he'd ever seen. There was a photo of it on his phone, and he'd stared it far too often.

"I asked him for a Cap for you, but he said he does Cap for everyone, and he wanted to do something more... personal," Clint said with a shrug. 

Phil looked up at him, eyes wide and mouth open. "I don't -- _how?!_ "

A notecard slipped out of the side of the plastic protector, Rogers' version of Cap on the front, looking strong and tall and brave. The inside held a short message, in clear enough writing for Clint to read it upside down from across the table.

_To Phil,_

_Happy birthday! You make a very dashing Bucky, and your pal "Robin" there makes a very fine hero, too. Enjoy the drawing!_

_Sincerely,_

_Steven G. Rogers_

Phil stared down at it, glancing back and forth between the card and the drawing before looking up at Clint, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"I don't understand any of this. I mean, I love it, thank you so much, but, how did you do this?"

Clint cleared his throat nervously. "Okay, so a few weeks ago, I was walking Lucky, and this guy came flying past and knocked me over. Lucky chased after him, so I chased after Lucky, and it turned out the guy had stolen a bag that turned out to belong to _Steve Rogers!_ What are the odds, right? Lucky cornered him long enough for me to take him down and grab the bag back, but then the asshole pulled a knife, so we had to let him go. I was considering trying that move you showed me, you know, the hold? But, knife. And then he said he owed me, so voila!"

Clint gestured to the drawing and then frowned. "Rogers said he owed me. Not the asshole with a knife."

Phil was staring at him, eyes wide with shock. "You chased down a thief with a knife and tackled him to get Steve Rogers' bag back?"

"Luck chased him down. I just came in at the end."

"Like it's no big deal, you do it every day! You're -- I can't..." Phil trailed off, shaking his head. He ran his fingers over the drawing, tracing the firm lines of their faces.

"Hey, you okay? I'm. Um. I'm sorry you didn't get to meet him, but I -- "

"What? No! I just -- Clint, you chased down an armed thief. You could've been hurt. Or killed! And then you could've asked for anything for yourself, but you asked for this for me. You're just... you're amazing."

Clint stared at him in confusion. "Me? It wasn't like that, really! I just -- "

Phil reached across the table and took his hands, keeping him from twisting them together the way he had been.

"You are! You're so brave, and good, and generous, and I wish..."

Clint stared into his eyes, so blue and sincere, staggered by what he thought he could read in them. He'd always thought Coulson -- Phil -- looked at him the same way Nat did, with a kind of fond exasperation, but this seemed to be so much more.

He tried to speak, but it came out as a croak, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "You wish?"

Phil blinked, biting his lip again, and Clint turned his hands under Phil's, squeezing them gently. "What do you wish, Phil?"

Phil took a deep breath, looking down at their hands. "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. The way I've always seen you, Clint. You're so..."

He trailed off, shaking his head, but he looked up into Clint's eyes, and Clint's breath caught. Phil might not be able to find the words, but everything was in his eyes.

"Phil..."

Phil's smile was a shy, quiet curve of his lips. "I figured if you were brave enough to chase down a guy with a knife, I could be brave enough to finally say this."

"This was way braver," Clint murmured. "I could never… I didn't know you -- I mean, for so long, I..."

"Let's both be brave?" Phil asked, leaning closer.

"This is much more fun than chasing a guy with a knife," Clint said, and felt a thrill of victory that Phil was laughing when they kissed.

**END**


End file.
